Page 69 of Made in Mumbai

She wiped her face, but her tears kept flowing.

“I have not failed, ok? We have not failed. It’s just a setback. Everything is on track. You still have four months to enjoy all the free rides till then,” she smiled through her tears, patting her belly button playfully. It was such an intimate moment. He ought to have moved away. But his feet were shackled to the ground.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered. And it was borne on the winds. “We’ve got this.”

Gautam turned on his heel and quietly exited her orbit. His eyes were wet. What the hell? He pinched them. The voice to distance himself from her began to rise when the other, stronger, louder voice silenced it. He liked that second voice more. So he quietly shut the windows, grabbed his bag and noiselessly slipped out of the door.

He huffed out a breath, turned at the door, then rung the doorbell. He cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair and checking if his shirt still looked decent.

The door opened and his eyes met hers. Smiling. Red but smiling.

“Hi! What a surprise!” She squealed. “Oh, please come into your own house.” She made a sweeping gesture and stepped to the side.

“I see my house has not become a party pad yet,” he rolled his luggage in.

“The cleaning crew did a good job,” she grinned. “We rolled joints in your crisp green Gandhi Bapus. Nice locker, by the way.”

He smiled, seeing her turn from that vulnerable, crying mother to this upbeat Maya in a matter of minutes. When she joked around with him, there was no sorrow in those eyes. Now if that was a genuine shift or she was that good an actor, he couldn’t decipher.

“What’s your plan for today?” He began to stride to his room.

“Belly dance, then dinner with the Ambassador of Sri Lanka.”

“Cancel it. You are coming with me.”

“Where…” she caught up with him just as he stopped outside his bedroom door.

“To a work dinner.”

“Work?” her nose scrunched. Then she whirled her head to the side, her hair hitting him in the shoulder. “Sorry, I don’t work on bank holidays. It’s against my principles.”

“It’s at Copper Chimney.”

He could see her principles begin to wobble. Copper Chimney was an old Bombay chain serving notoriously good North Indian food.

“For you though…” she gave him a winning smile, “I’ll pull overtime, My Lord!”

He pushed open his door — “Get ready.”

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“Give me a brief,” she clipped in a serious tone as they handed their car to the valet and climbed the three steps to the restaurant’s gate. Its new facade was all dark grills and gold accents, and Gautam made sure to keep behind her to make sure shesawher way.

“What brief?”

“We are going for a work dinner. So, who are they, what do they do… why are we meeting them? You know, the Mission Impossible type of stuff,” she ran a hand down her ponytail. For a blubbering mess in T-shirt and pyjamas, she cleaned up well in 30 minutes. A white satiny silk dress that dropped off her shoulders, eyes bright and popping, mouth shiny happy. If he didn’t know better, Gautam would think this is all that Maya Kotak is — eye candy.

“We are meeting Nilay Patel…” he pinned his ear shut at her shrill squeak.

“If you act like this I’ll send you back.”

“Fine, Mr-I-Am-Not-Starstruck, I will keep my mouth shut and act the perfect dumb girl. Happy?” He ignored her jibe and let the hostess lead them to their table, pulling his cuff from under his suit jacket. He had chosen a charcoal suit tonight, with a black silk shirt underneath, not realising that it contrasted perfectly with his dinner partner. He saw it now in a side mirror panel and was shocked to see how good they looked together, her cradling her tiny baby bump, looking pretty and approachable, while he brought up the rear with his scowl.

“We are here because he requested this meeting,” Gautam helped her sit in a booth, then slid in next to her. “That is why I cut short my trip and flew home. He wants us to supply textiles for his 2025 wedding collection but first wants an ego massage.”

“Say no more,” Maya put her hand up, turning to him with her most confident smirk. “I am blackbelt in ego massage.”

“You are to be quiet,” he warned, leaning in.

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